Curiosity Killed the Cat
by BeccaRamsey
Summary: After the Strip Strangler case, Grissom reflects on his motivation during the case and those wonderful moments in the laundry room Catherine sets the record straight. CatherineGrissom bonding moment.


RATING: PG (violence) 

SPOILERS: Strip Strangler

SUMMARY: Grissom reflects on his motivation during the case and those wonderful moments in the laundry room; Catherine sets the record straight. (Cat/Gris bonding moments.) 

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is my first CSI fan fiction, and has been posted here at ff.net as I try to streamline my own website a bit. I hope I have been able to stay true to the intricacies of the characters. Should you have feedback -- good or bad -- please feel free to use the review function above. Flames will be dutifully ignored. 

***

The setting desert sun cast rosy hues against the white bricked walls of the townhouse. Gil Grissom sat on the loveseat, a bottle of water in his left hand, Polaroid in his right. His elbows rested on his knees, body angled intently over the coffee table. Similar photographs cluttered the roughly worn surface, strewn with brown fibrous folders and carbon copied reports. Despite the apparent disarray, it all fell into place, each minute detail a puzzle piece, fitting seamlessly into the die-cut beach scene Grissom saw in his mind. 

"I don't like holes," he always said. The preliminary review of Goggle's refuse had prompted even Special Agent Culpepper to admit a mistake had been made. The tubes of ketchup, the trace evidence left on the towels -- they were the final pieces to the puzzle. Still, Grissom just couldn't lay it to rest. A small nagging voice simply wouldn't let him. 

The nagging voice was fear. 

It had been a long time since he had actually _felt_ fear. As he performed his duties, Grissom focused not on the atrocity of the crime, nor the plight of the victim. He focused on the evidence -- the answers to who, what, when, where, why, and how. _Mrs. White in the conservatory with a lead pipe,_ he thought dispassionately. It was _this_ view that allowed for his professional detachment. The problem arose when Brian called in the FBI. That made it personal. _That_ made it dangerous. 

In retrospect, he shouldn't have gone to Goggle's apartment alone. Suspended or not, he knew the rules of procedure. Sid Goggle was a suspect, considered dangerous -- especially if his suspicions were correct. But the more his mind whirled, the more he needed answers. And so he went…alone. 

Peering into the apartment, the die-cut puzzle pieces began to form a whole: forensic science textbooks, electric razors, fingernail clippers, scissors. No tire marks, no burned rubber. 

Grissom's eyes narrowed as he mentally replayed their first meeting. _He knew _me. He recalled the eager tone, the anxious glint to the eyes. _He wanted to see if he could get past us._ His eyes drifted down to the concrete. Instinct led him to follow the liquid trailing from the apartment door. _So careful, so meticulous…only to throw it out in his own garbage._ Grissom shook his head. _Cocky._

His eyes flitted over the scene photos. Under the harsh temporary lighting provided by the FBI, the laundry room hardly seemed as sinister as he remembered. Dimly lit, the humid air hung heavy with the scent of detergent and dryer sheets. Easing down the stairs, his ears registered the clatter of loose change tumbling through dryers, of agitators powering through loads too big for the machine. 

Sid tried to play it cool. His ego wouldn't let him believe the trail had finally led back to him. But as Grissom talked, a flicker of fear lit Goggle's eyes: he knew he was caught. He then had two options: fight or flight. Unfortunately for Grissom, he chose the former. 

It wasn't until afterward that Grissom really knew what hit him. "A wrench," Nick told him with his usual Texas drawl. Seated on the loveseat, Grissom absently rubbed at the bruise. "A really _big_ wrench." 

_At least he missed my head,_ Gil thought. It was that moment, he realized, that he had become genuinely frightened. His arms rose instinctively, his eyes slamming shut as he prepared for the blow. And then Grissom heard gunfire. Goggle went down with not one -- but _five_ shots from Catherine's gun. 

Now, as he sat looking over the case, he realized his own compulsions had almost cost him his life. It was a sobering realization. 

"Gil?"

Grissom blinked, looking up with a start. Catherine stood in the living room, two non-descript brown bags in her arms. He furrowed his brow. "Catherine? How--?" 

Interrupting him, Catherine held up a set of keys -- _his_ keys. "You remember to lock the door… you just left these hanging from the deadbolt. Here. Catch." 

Tossing the picture down onto the table, Grissom snatched the keys from midair. "Thanks," he mumbled. He promptly dropped them onto the coffee table, sweeping up his water bottle. He took a long swig, then returned it to the table. With his free hand, he massaged his temple. 

As she crossed to the open kitchen, Catherine glanced over her shoulder. "Another headache?" she asked. She placed the brown bags onto the counter. 

"Same one," Grissom replied. "Sometimes takes up to a week to kill it." He nodded his head. "What's in the bags?" 

"An apology." Catherine withdrew several plastic containers from the bags. "Chicken with vegetables and Mongolian beef -- both without the MSG. I didn't think your head needed the encouragement." 

Grissom pushed himself off the loveseat. "Thanks," he said. "How'd you know I'd be home?"

"The coaster attendant said he hadn't seen you," she answered. "I played a hunch. How's the arm?" 

"Still there." Grissom rotated his arm by way of demonstration. "Certainly not helping the headache." 

Catherine grimaced. "Hmmm." 

Grissom raised his brows. "Hmmm?" 

"No forks," she said, looking into the empty bags. 

"Second drawer." 

Reaching over, Catherine pulled open the drawer, withdrawing silverware. Grissom reached behind her, retrieving two places. "So…why the apology?" 

"One," Catherine began, scooping up helpings for both Grissom and herself, "I thought you might need someone to talk to. And two… I felt guilty."

Grissom swallowed his bite of chicken. "Guilty? About what?" 

"Politicking." 

"You can only do what you think is right at the time, Catherine." He shook his head. "Don't worry about it." A wry grin tugged upward at the corners of his lips, despite the headache. "I'll forget about it before the next review." 

Catherine frowned. "Gee, thanks." 

The grin lit Grissom's eyes. "That's what friends are for." He paused a beat. "Speaking of friends…" 

"Yes?" She turned to him, brows raised. 

_Oh, great, Gris. She's got _that_ look. _He cleared his throat, looking down at his plate. He shifted a green onion toward the rice. "I never thanked you for showing up when you did. I was pretty glad to see you." 

Catherine nodded slowly, once. "I knew you'd piece it together eventually," she said. "You should have waited for one of us, Gil." 

At this, Grissom sighed. "I know. I was playing a hunch. If it was wrong, I didn't want to waste anyone else's time." 

"Your efficiency almost got you killed." 

"My _curiosity_ almost got me killed." The words were out of his mouth before he realized he had spoken aloud. 

Catherine blinked, looking to him. "I guess it almost did." 

A long moment of silence followed. It his mind, Grissom replayed once again those crucial seconds. _One, two…three, four, five_ he counted. _Five shots?_ He looked up to Catherine, his brows knitted. "You fired five shots." 

"What do you mean?" 

"I keep replaying it in my mind…and you fired five shots. Why? Two had him, as I recall." 

Catherine paused, chewing as though choosing her words carefully, thoughtfully. She spoke after a long moment. "Let's just say I didn't want your curiosity killing _you_." 

They stared at one another briefly, a flicker lighting first his eyes, then hers. Grissom's lips twitched lopsided. As quickly as the flicker appeared, however, it was blinked away. 

***

_"I could cry salty tears  
Where have I been  
All these years  
How long has this been  
goin' on…"_

Rolling onto his back, Grissom opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. On the night table beside him, the final strains of a familiar Gershwin song filtered through stereo speakers. He blinked a few times, clearing the cobwebs from his mind. He then flung back the covers and swung his feet to the floor. 

The hardwood floor was cool against his feet as he made his way across the bedroom. Running his hand through his matted crown of salt-and-pepper hair, he stopped. _Wait a second._ Memory prickled across the back of his mind. Wasn't there someone else here…? 

When he had left Catherine the previous night, she had fallen asleep during the two a.m. showing of "The Thin Man." Grissom wanted to wake her but, seeing how peacefully she slept, curled tightly into a ball, he'd left her be. A few minutes later he had crawled into his bed and slept. 

Finding the living room empty, he frowned. The clutter across the coffee table had been straightened, the files no longer present. A note was all that remained. Padding across the room, he picked it up and slipped on his glasses. 

_Gil – _

_You said you admired my ability to never doubt, never look back. Curiosity almost killed the cat. Lesson learned. Time to move on. _

_-- Catherine _

Grissom stared at the note a moment longer before moving again. As he set it aside he gave a grin. Beneath her signature, Catherine had drawn a black cat, hair raised, back arched. _Let's see what I can do with the eight I have left._ Laying the note back onto the coffee table, Grissom traipsed off to the shower.


End file.
